Unsatisfactory as was this postponement, Jack was destined to meet with a further disappointment. The doctor had been pacified and given an explanation of the affair, and Billy Faraday had declared that he did not want to be worried further with the man Tiger. He had recovered the bag, and he was willing to let the matter rest there. But when they got into a later train, Jack's curiosity prompted more questioning.
"By Jingo, Billy," he said, "that was a great sprint you made for the bag. Anyone would have thought you had a purse of sovereigns in it, or something."
Billy sniffed. "Well, perhaps hardly a purse of sovereigns, but something—"
"Well?" prompted Jack.
"I don't know whether I ought to tell you," said Billy, enigmatically. He ran his fingers through his thick, black hair, and stared out of the window.
"Hang it all," protested Jack, "you're starting this term in a jolly mysterious way! What's the giddy joke? What have you got up your sleeve—or in your bag?"
Billy shot a look of sharp inquiry at his friend.
"You're cute, Jack," was all he said. "You've dropped to it that there's something."
"Also that our friend Tiger is interested in your bag. Perhaps he knows what's in it."
"Knows—or guesses," said Billy, with a queer smile.
"But this is a bit too thick. And there's that revolver, too, just to make a real, nice, soupy mystery of it. I tell you, Billy, when you came out with the canister I—"
He opened his mouth, spread his hands, and indicated immense surprise.
"Perhaps I was a bit of a fool to bring it," Billy admitted. "But—it came in jolly handy!"
"Still, that doesn't account for it all. What is it, Billy? Can't you tell me?"
Billy shook his head slowly, uncertainly. "No, Jack—not yet. I promised I'd tell you, but—I won't. I don't want to alarm you without need, see? I may be wrong about this—all this business. The bag, the revolver, all our little adventure may be quite meaningless, and I don't want to be dragging you after any mares' nests—not yet awhile. But if anything happens—"
"Don't mind me," said Jack, weakly. "The Sphinx is a sort of uncle of mine. I'm good at riddles! No more explanations, Billy. I'm in a knot with them already. Don't overload my young mind any further." And he laughed, quite falling in with his pal's present reluctance to divulge, and dismissed the subject.
All the same, he realized that there was indeed something behind Billy's reticence. The two were good friends; anything in the ordinary way they shared as a matter of course. But this—this was something important, something serious. Strangely enough, he had an odd feeling that this term was going to be a remarkable one—and certainly it was opening well. Billy had hinted at further events. What was he to expect? Truly there might be adventures in the near future.
Or yet, on the other hand, perhaps the whole affair was nothing at all—a mere mare's nest, as Billy had said. Either way, there was nothing to be gained by thinking any more about it.
When, finally, they reached the College, there were lots of things to be done, and they spent the afternoon in the study that they shared with two other fellows. Last term the two study-mates had left the College, and consequently there would be two new boys this term.
"Nobody here," said Billy Faraday, opening the door and glancing round the room. "Place looks bare, doesn't it, with all their things gone?"
"Wonder who's going to step into their shoes?" queried Jack thoughtfully.
"No idea." Billy was absorbed in unlocking his cupboard, and Jack, glancing over his shoulder, saw the light fall on the blue barrel of that mysterious revolver.
"Leaving it there, Billy?"
Billy nodded. "For the present. I'm not one of those asses that'd go round swanking with a thing like this. Don't think I brought it for that, old chap."
"I don't, Billy!"
Billy looked at his friend, and seemed on the verge of giving away at last the real reason why he had brought the revolver. But at that moment there came a knock at the door, and Billy quickly thrust a small black cash-box into the far corner of the cupboard, and shut it hurriedly.
"Come in," said Jack, sitting on the table swinging his legs; and there promptly entered a most amazing apparition.
A tall, very thin youth, with horn-rimmed spectacles, stood at the door. He carried stacks of luggage, baskets, odd bundles in paper, a portmanteau or two, which, with an air of great relief, he proceeded to distribute impartially over the floor of the study.
"What—what—?" gasped Billy.
"Ah, comrade!" demanded the new arrival, "how are you?" He fingered a red tie of extraordinary brilliance of design. "I trust you have spent your holidays in quiet enjoyment, and have returned flowing over with vigour to—" At this stage a cushion struck him in the face, and he fell gracefully backwards over a suit-case.
He arose with the expression of a resigned martyr, and dusted his trousers. "Comrades both," he declared, "that was unkind of you—really it was. However, perhaps I was unduly long in coming to the point. I should have announced," he beamed broadly, "that hence-forward I am to be your study-mate."
"Our what?" demanded Jack, incredulously.
"Why, your study-mate, comrade. Come, come, where are your tongues? What, no congratulations? Aren't you overjoyed to have me? Think how well we are sure to get on together—think of the evenings of happy and profitable study, self-help, also co-operation, everything pleasant—No, I implore you, no more cushions."
"Well, cut out the oratory," warned Jack, lowering the missile. "Do you think we are a bally political meeting? Aren't you Patch, though—weren't you in Cooper's House last term?"
"That is my poor name." The newcomer executed a profound bow. "Septimus Patch, socialist, inventor, friend of the downtrodden and oppressed—"
"Cheese it," said Billy. "Why on earth did they move you to this house?"
"Ah, why?" said Patch blandly, gazing at the ceiling.
"And why, on top of that, did they pick upon this study?"
"Who knows?" The inventor gazed dreamily out of the window. "Fate, perhaps."
"And, anyway," Symonds took up the tale, "what have you got in all these traps?"
"My chemicals—my models of invention—my books—my goods generally," said Septimus Patch gloomily.
Horror deepened upon the faces of the two chums.
"Do you mean to say—?" said Billy.
"—Rotten chemicals?" finished Jack.
"In this study?" Billy could scarcely believe it.
"Why not?" asked Patch, with his conciliatory smile, polishing his enormous spectacles. "Is it not comforting to be companioned by a man of science—I will not say genius? When time drags, you may find infinite enjoyment in mixing up things for me, and solace in wandering through the dark forest of science under my guidance."
"Oh, help!" moaned Jack.
"Moses!" gasped Billy.
"'Dark forest of science,'" quoted Jack, throwing himself weakly into Billy's easy chair. "This place is going to be a little paradise, isn't it just?"
"More like a ward in a lunatic asylum," corrected Billy with bitterness.
"You are unduly severe on yourselves," Patch assured them blandly. He was unpacking an enormous number of things, and distributing them pell-mell over the floor. Jack and Billy could only sit and stare, goggle-eyed, at the spreading disorder on their one and only carpet.
"Pictures, too, comrades," said Septimus enthusiastically, bringing to light a huge bundle of frames wrapped in brown paper. He exhibited the top one proudly.
"Good grief! What on earth's that?" demanded Jack in astonishment. "Side elevation of a poached egg, or—"
"That," said the owner, indignantly, dusting it with his handkerchief, "is a diagram of the anatomy of the common flea. Much magnified, of course. Rather good, don't you think? Where shall I put it?"
"In the fireplace," suggested Billy, cruelly. "Do you think we want to be gazing all day at that horror? And what's this?"
"Butterflies."
"Not so bad. Put them up there over that shelf."
Septimus hoisted the huge frame into place, and got down, beaming broadly.
"Comrade," he said, "we are getting on quite well. Only one or two more; here's a portrait of Sir Isaac Newton."
"It's a good frame," commented Jack. "I've a photo of Trumper that'd just fit in. I'll dig it out. Here, we'll put it up high for the present." So saying he balanced a big dictionary on a chair, and climbed up with Sir Isaac Newton in his hands.
"Hope I can reach," he said, while Septimus Patch and Billy Faraday watched him anxiously. It did not seem as if he could reach. He raised himself cautiously on tiptoe, but the frame was heavy and the risk great. The dictionary tottered.
"Look out, Jack—you'll be over," said Billy. "Whoa!" He made a frantic grab at his pal, but missed by about a foot.
Jack came down with a tremendous crash, scattering a pile of Patch's bottles right and left. There was a tinkle of broken glass and the sound of a mild explosion; through the ensuing cloud of smoke Septimus could be seen seated on the floor, vainly endeavouring to release his head from the photograph frame that Jack had let fall.
It was fortunate that Sir Isaac had had no glass in front of him, or the results might have been serious. As it was, he was hopelessly punctured now; the frame hung about Patch's neck like a grotesque collar.
"Ha, ha, ha!" The sight was so absurd that Billy could not check a laugh at the comicality of it all, but his laugh ended abruptly. At that moment the door opened, and a stern voice spoke.
"What is the meaning of this?"
Billy looked up in surprise. The voice was a strange one, but it carried a ring of authority.
"Just a slight accident, comrade," replied Patch. "We were hanging this picture, and regrettably it fell. Ah, off it comes at last! But I am afraid Sir Isaac is disfigured," he added sadly. "Yes, he does look rather cut up."
"I am your new history master," said the other, interrupting him. His rasping voice made Jack swing round with a gasp of surprise. "Daw is my name."
"Doctor Daw!" murmured Jack. The words were literally jerked out of him by surprise. He regretted them instantly, but it was too late. The amazing fact was that the man now standing in the doorway was actually the man who had travelled with them in the train—the fellow who had been so familiar with the bag-snatching Tiger on the station, and who had completely ignored him afterwards. Jack recalled now that the man had said that he was going to Deepwater. It was a somewhat startling coincidence, and it was no wonder that he had been impelled to whisper the name that Tiger had given the new history master.
Slight as that whisper had been, it had not escaped the ears of Doctor Daw, who gave a violent start and took a step forward. His mouth opened, as if he were about to say something, but no words followed. His eyes met Jack's in a troubled, questioning stare. He seemed to say, "How much do you know? What have you got hold of?" And then, on the verge of an outburst, he recovered himself.
"I have a new study-mate for you," said he quietly, although his eyes still glittered angrily. "A new boy to the college, and from New Zealand, who will be in your form. Fane is his name—but no doubt he will introduce himself."
With that he ushered in the boy Fane, and let himself out. Only, before he closed the door, he eyed Jack narrowly—and his glance seemed to convey a threat, a warning. There was no mistaking the malignant nature of the look. Jack felt chilled, he knew not why. Then, the door closed, and Mr. Daw was gone.
"Cheerful-looking chap," commented Billy. "How are you, Fane?"
"Well, thanks," said Fane, who was a short and rather nervous-looking boy. He came forward and shook hands all round. "Hope we get on well together."
"My sentiments exactly, comrade," said Septimus Patch. "I'm new myself, but I'll sort of father you. What are your interests? Know anything about Science? Or Socialism?"
Fane smiled nervously. "Neither, I'm afraid. Where can I put my things?"
"Here you are," said Billy. "What shall we call you?"
"My first name's Swinnerton," he admitted. "Silly name, of course—call me Swin, if you like."
And while Billy and Patch were attempting to make the newcomer feel at home, Jack was looking idly out of the window. He did not know the connection between Doctor Daw and Tiger, but he felt vaguely that he had made an enemy.